


Untitled

by awittyname



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - Wodehouse
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-25
Updated: 2010-03-25
Packaged: 2017-10-08 07:31:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/74176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awittyname/pseuds/awittyname
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even he was beginning to think them quaint and archaic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled

“Sir-Bertram-what is that?” I grinned at Jeeves, pulling him along to the wonderful little machine. He was standing firm in his place, however, refusing to budge.

“This-” I said, retrieving one of the two helmets that were now sitting on the shelf of the small garage of our townhouse. I hadn't seen the point in having so much space in a garage when we'd gotten the place shortly after the war, especially as the two-seater had been traded in for a much more practical, and rather smaller, hard-top, but now I'd finally found a use for it. “Is a Triumph Bonneville, and is an absolute model of modern engineering. Perfectly balanced, turns on a dime, and is an absolute joy to ride.”

“You mean to say you've ridden it?”

“Well I had to get it home somehow, didn't I? Come on now, it's great fun.”

“Do you really think this a wise investment?”

“Of course it is. Well come on-” I handed off the other helmet to him, but he made no effort to put it on, instead it lay dangling from his fingertips.

“I will not, sir.”

“It's perfectly safe.” I could tell from the way he was looking at the motorbike that the thought the exact opposite. “I promise.” He continued standing where he was, looking at the motorcycle with same thinly veiled horror he applied to garish ties and brightly-coloured trousers. And as the years went by, although he did allow somewhat for tastes to change-he had stopped insisting I wear a waistcoat out, at any rate, and even grudgingly allowed the no-longer-young master a few pairs of blue jeans, as they really were rather comfortable-the newest fashions were rather irksome to him.

“I was under the impression that motorbikes were, in fact, one of the more dangerous modes of transport, sir.” I scowled at him, more for lapsing back into calling me 'sir' than for his unwillingness to hop on the back of the Triumph. It was something that he tended only to do when pipped at yours truly, largely because he knew how much I hated it.

Over the years our relationship had slow morphed-transforming from master and servant, to friends, to something decidedly more permanent. It was one of those things that neither of us could quite figure out where-or when-it had began. Simply that somewhere along the way his stuffed frog facade had crumbled, and a mutual desire had led to the two of us to where we were-the closest thing to husband and husband that two blokes could get. It hadn't been planned, or even really wanted in the sense that no one would ever want an inverted relationship-or gay, as the kids are calling it these days. No one ever wants a relationship that brings with it a hundred problems, but it isn't as though we chose who we fall in love with. It just sort of happens.

One day one looks up and realizes that the love of their life is the one that's been there all along, and that they've been blind to miss it. It certainly felt that way when the realization banged me over the head that after all we'd been through together, I was quite content to live out the rest of my days with no one else but him, and that my life really hadn't even begun until he first stepped in to right all the wrongs in it. Oh, sure, I had muddled through twenty years of existence prior to Jeeves' arrival, but once he arrived with all of his grand plans and schemes and machinations, was when my life truly became interesting. And it had taken me quite a bit of time to realize that he was the only thing needed to make this Wooster happy.

That's not to say that weren't firsts with our relationship, as of course, like any relationship there were. Like any lovestruck old sop I could still remember the first time we kissed-it hadn't exactly been something planned on, really, but rather something that had just happened. It had been shortly after I narrowly escaped my marriage to one Jessica Dirhan, who had, unfortunately, been rather perfect for me. The sort of girl that I could find no reason not to marry, short of admitting to one and all that my reasons for not wanting to marry involved my lack of interest in the female form. And while there had been women who had cut a dashing enough physical form to put my lack of interest in most things feminine aside, Jessica had not been one of them. But she was a sweet girl, who didn't try to mold me into anything, and for some strange reason found me rather charming.

And as hard as I tried to find some reason, any reason, not to marry her, there was none that could be easily found. Jeeves, for all his great brains, was equally at a loss, although I knew he was putting his all into it. I had found myself on the eve of my wedding night sobbing rather drunkenly against Jeeves. “I don't want to marry her, Jeeves.” I'd said, “I don't love her, and I'm going to lose you-” And that had been what was making me sob more than the thought of being hitched to some woman for the rest of my life. I could handle being married to some filly or another if I had Jeeves at my side to continue puling the Wooster carcass out of the soup. “You're my best friend, you know, if it wasn't for you, I'd likely be dead by now, having been hitched to some Glossop or Basset or something who'd have driven me either into Sir Roderick's care, or straight to my death, You couldn't make an exception could you? Stay on, even if I 'm hitched?” I admit that I'd been laying it on rather thick, but that was likely due to the copious amounts of whiskey I had consumed with Tuppy and Bingo as a sort of last hurrah before finding myself in the spongebag trousers.

“I could not, sir.” Was all he said, although I could tell that he was not altogether unaffected by our impending separation, as at any other time, he wouldn't have held the young master just as tight, letting me sob against him.

When I awoke the next morning, Jeeves had been there long enough to make sure that I looked presentable in the old soup and fish before excusing himself, and I will admit that I felt not a little bit betrayed that he refused to even see me through to the end. But I did not blame him for it, though, as I was sure if the posish was reversed, I wouldn't have wanted to see him waiting at the altar for a bride he did not want either. I can't say I remember much of the ceremony proper, so wrapped up was I in my thoughts of my own misery, and how horrible my life was going to become.

It wasn't until the priest got to the bit about objections that Jeeves managed to pull through in the eleventh hour, producing some short young man, who objected loudly and clearly, having apparently proposed to Jessica not long before she had met me, and who she'd apparently left because of his inability to stand up for what he wanted. Obviously, his standing up for her in the middle of her wedding to someone else was quite enough to convince Jessica that perhaps the poor chap did have a backbone after all.

I managed to slip out in the ensuing fracas, and found Jeeves waiting with the car in the back of the church. “Jeeves, you wonderful, wonderful, man! I don't know how you manage such things, but you have my eternal thanks!” I daresay I was dancing to myself, quite glad that there was no one else around to see me.

“I apologize for not finding Mr. Staltmegher earlier, sir.” So caught up was I in my joy that I did the only thing I could think of-grasp him by his lapels and plant one soundly on him in thanks. I hadn't actually intended anything by it, but it was one of those moments where one finds themselves rather overtaken by their emotions. It hadn't even been a particularly good kiss, being as unplanned as it was-it was rather slobbery, really, and I say it holds the honour of being one of the few times I've managed to render Jeeves too shocked to do anything. He just stood there for a long second, before his lips opened beneath mine, his tongue giving a cautious swipe against my lower lip, and his hands found their way to wrap around my waist and tangle in my hair.

“I say Jeeves-” I said, rather breathless once we finally surfaced for air. Despite having broken the kiss, we were still incredibly close to one another. “I don't know what came over me just then. Rather sorry about that old thing-” And before I could say anything else, I found Jeeves pulling me back in to close those inches again.

“Don't be.” Had been his response, and well, when faced with that how could one possibly say no?

We stayed there necking for another five minutes before I realized that at any second the rest of the wedding would be letting out-this time with Mr. and Mrs. Eric Staltmegher, instead of Mr. and Mrs. Bertie Wooster, and it would be wisest if we weren't caught in the current posish. The idea of heading home to continue the proceedings appealed to Jeeves as well, and we'd been off, making it back to London in what had to be record time-half out of fear of being caught by Aunt Agatha, and half out of a desire to continue what had already begun.

It'd been a seeming lifetime ago that we'd shared that first kiss outside of the church-so much had changed since then. The world around us, certainly had. There'd been another world war, which had led to our being forced to relocate to the townhouse that we now lived in, as the flat had been rendered uninhabitable by the Blitz. The entire social order of the world had changed-the serving class seemingly evaporated at the end of the war. Sure, butlers and valets and maids still existed, but they were becoming a rarer and rarer breed by the day. It seemed that the youth viewed Jeeves as something that was quaint and archaic.

Even I was beginning to view us as quaint and archaic. I couldn't help but stare at the reflection gazing back at me in the chrome trim. There was a bald spot that had been growing for the past thirty years, and was now threatening to completely engulf my head. There were fine lines across the entire Wooster map, deepest at the corners of my eyes, where they crinkled when I laughed, and around my mouth. It still struck me as odd to see my own reflection in the mirror at times-I suppose I still saw myself as I was in my prime, and not at all the old man I'd become.

Jeeves, on the other hand, had hardly changed. His dark hair had gone grey at the temples, and there were a few faint lines in the stuffed frog visage, but for the most part he was still the same as ever. His eyesight had faded ever so slightly-he now required reading glasses when pouring over his improving books, and he wasn't quite as upright as he used to be-although I doubted anyone but myself noticed that, as he still managed to command quite the presence. And perhaps his trim waist had gained an inch or two, but that's something to be expected of a man who'd approached, conquered, and was now coming out of the other side of the time of one's life dubbed 'middle aged.' But other than the little things, Jeeves was still entirely the same.

It'd been thirty years since we first declared our mutual love for one another-the declarations had come in the car on the return trip to London, when I admitted that it wasn't being married that terrified me, it was not having Jeeves in my life that did. And he admitted that he would be lost without me. All in all, the sort of sappy rot that those who've just been struck with cupid's arrow tend to spew forth. I daresay the two of us were likely giving Madeline Basset a run for her money in terms of inanely lovestruck sentiments.

I looked up at Jeeves expectantly in the small garage, bending over to heave up the door, feeling my back protest the movement. Electric openers were becoming more and more common, and if I was going to keep the bike in the garage (as I certainly didn't feel comfortable leaving it on the street) it would be a wise investment to consider. “Humour an old man, love.” I said, wheeling the motorcycle around so that it was facing the street.

At my gentle insistence, he moved, but only to step behind me. Circling my waist with his arms, his breath hot against my ear. “Does it mean that much to you?” He asked, puncturing the question with a gentle nibble to the lobe. It was the little moments like this that made any of the spats we'd had, any of the hardships that we'd faced together worth it. It was worth having to keep our relationship a secret to feel him tuck my head beneath his chin, agreeing to something simply because I asked. It was worth giving up a love of bright and colourful clothing to have him beside me always. It was worth waking up at odd hours of the night not of my own volition, but because of the infernal racket that was his snoring. Although that was usually remedied by a sharp elbow to the ribs, which while it would not wake him, would get him to roll over to a less noisome position.

“It's glorious, it really is.” I told him, breaking free of his grasp enough to pull the helmet down over my head. I could see him fighting with himself-it did go against everything that was Jeeves, after all-it was extremely likely that his nice black suit would get dusty, and it was a rather flashy motorcycle-but at the same time, it was Bertram who was asking him to go for a spin. I'd learned long ago that a look of pleading on the old Wooster map had a wonderful effect on obstinate Jeeveses. I merely had to look at him like a dog wanting a treat and he melted. Most of the time, at any rate. There were times that he dug in his heels and refused to allow my charms to work their wont. When I suggested painting the sitting room a stately purple for example. Or on matters of paisley-print bedspreads.

He relented to this, however, the helmet fitting rather nicely against his head. I couldn't help the grin that spread across my face, and I leaned up to kiss him soundly, not caring that the garage door was open for anyone to see. Unfortunately, I hadn't quite accounted for the extra headgear getting in the way, making things dashed difficult. After the better part of a minute trying to angle us in such a way that our lips could actually meet, I decided that the whole thing was a wash, and instead climbed aboard the new object.

I settled comfortably on the seat, feeling Jeeves slide into place behind me. “Just hang on tight, Jeeves.” I told him, feeling his strong hands grip around my waist as I slowly accelerated the Triumph. It really was one of the greatest feelings ever, the wind blowing by, and feeling so much more connected to the road than in a car. It was the closest thing to flying that I'd ever felt. I could feel Jeeves nestled tightly against me, his grip on my hips betraying just how uncomfortable he was with riding on the back of a motorcycle.

I took things slowly for his sake-when I'd bought the thing earlier that afternoon, I admit to being rather more reckless than a sixty year old man should have been on a motorcycle, but I didn't want to risk hurting Jeeves-or even scaring him, as if I scared him the first time, it would be dashed hard to get him to consent to ever riding the bally thing again, and even though I'd had it for less than twenty-four hours, I was already rather fond of it. But as we went further and further away from the house in the twilight hours of the evening, I could feel his grip loosening as he grew more and more comfortable behind me. I took the bike slowly up to speed, until I had the throttle open, and the strangest thing happened.

I heard what started as a low rumble behind me, one that I'd hardly heard before. I recognized it, after a belated moment, as Jeeves' laugh. I'd heard him chuckled before, certainly, and the occasionally amused snort, but I'd only ever heard him laugh a handful of times before. The first time had been just after the narrow escape from marriage, on the drive back to London, although that had been more of a laugh of relief that things were finally falling properly into place. There had been the first Christmas since our relationship changed where I had used the holiday as an excuse to ply him full of whiskey in hope of getting him to drop all semblance of his sang-froid that he kept around him at all times, and it hadn't failed. Jeeves positively doubled-over with laughter, something that would not have happened at any other time, is the only memory that managed to cement itself into the old Wooster noggin about that night, but the neighbours reported a spirited bit of caroling apparently had come from the flat somewhere around the twilight hours of the morning. And the time last year just after my dreaded Aunt A's passing-after I had started to truly believe she had entered into some sort of pact with the devil himself to render her immortal, as she made it to the ripe old age of ninety-six before relinquishing her iron grip on the world-who had left me with McMillan, her terrier, having outlived McIntosh, McKenzie, and McLellan, (having been utterly unable to come up with any decent name for the letter J) and a vitriolic letter which had read something along the lines of pointing out that she had known about Jeeves and Self all along, and while she could not bless the union, she was glad that there were no small Woosters to go about sullying the family name and ruining all of England, as any children of mine would have been bound to do.

Jeeves had come across me staring at the missive rather dumfounded. And when he plucked it from my fingers, his reaction to my Aunt A's ticking off of our relationship had been that laugh-which made any horrific feelings I'd had of her rising from the grave to throw the two of us into Colney Hatch-or whatever it had been renamed to-dissipate immediately. “If it wasn't for the proof of this letter in my hand, I would have never believed a word of it. Her knowing, all this time, and leaving us be.”

“I imagine that this was her attempt at letting on just how fondly she considered you.”

“Tchah.” Had been my response, but I couldn't help but feel that Jeeves was right. Then again, Jeeves was always right.

Which brings us back to the motorcycle, and Jeeves letting loose with that all-too-rare laugh. I felt his hands come off of my waist after a long moment, and chanced a glance behind to see his arms outstretched in the darkening night. There was no one else around to see us as we sped along the deserted little streets, and it was only the knowledge that we were currently going at a rather fast pace that stopped me from being enthralled by the sight of Jeeves, looking rather although he was about to float off the bike and start flying away, a glimmer of childish wonder on his face. It was a look I'd never seen before on his stoic visage, and one that even though I'd only gotten a split-second glimpse of it, was one that I was sure I'd never forget until the old Grim Reaper showed up for the last of the Woosters.

It was only after the night began to inflict a bit of a chill what with the wind whipping past us and all that I turned back in the direction of home. “See, that wasn't bad at all.” I pointed out once the Triumph had been parked safely back in the garage, resolving to, even if I never rode the thing again, keep it always as a reminder of that look of absolute amazement, wonder and glee on my love's face.

“I may have jumped to conclusions about the vehicle.” I grinned, and kissed him gently, this time remembering to remove both helmets before attempting the gesture.

“I believe this is one time that I can tell you 'I told you so'” His only response was a quirked eyebrow that I had long since learned to interpret as 'don't be so sure, Wooster.'

“Perhaps.” He replied, following me into the house.

“It's getting late, what?” I asked, unable to stifle a yawn. It seemed that the older I got the more and more respectable my sleep schedule became. Part of that had to do with Jeeves' ungodly hour of waking, even now. It's dashed hard to sleep when the one who shares your bed is busy pottering about making breakfast and all. Even as silent as he was, there was something about the lack of another warm body in the bed next to one when one is accustomed to one being there that makes it rather hard to sleep.

“Indeed.” I started heading in the direction of the bedroom, turning to see Jeeves gazing rather fondly at a picture of the two of us, snapped candidly on the deck of one of the many boats we'd found ourselves on. The only reason why this picture had been left on a side table in a frame, rather than any of the others was because of which boat it had been-the one that took us off to some small island someplace for two weeks of rollicking good fun thirty years previously, a honeymoon of sorts-certainly the closest thing to it. I turned around and headed towards him, wrapping one arm comfortably around his waist. His own arm went around my shoulders, holding us close.

“That was a great trip, wasn't it?” He gave a small hum of agreement. “The sun, the surf, the bright sky-”

“I don't recall spending much time outside of the bedroom.” I grinned, feeling a slight bit of heat in my cheeks at the comment, as true as it was.

“Yes, well.” I paused, an idea forming in the dark recesses of the mind. It'd been a dashed long time since we'd left to go much further than the continent, and the last time we'd been to America had been by plane, which had been a rather nerve wracking experience that I vowed to never repeat again. But a nice little cruise, however, seemed like just the thing to mark the three decade mark since our relations had taken a decidedly chummier turn. I performed a bit of mental arithmetic, realizing that the three decade mark was only three months away. Had all that time really flown by so quickly? “You know what would be absolutely spiffing, love?” I was treated to a questioning eyebrow. “Perhaps getting away from the spring rains to someplace rather more sunny, what?” His lips twitched upward into a Jeevesian smile-the sort that one that was well-versed in reading Jeeves would recognize as the closest thing he had to a grin, but to anyone else looked like barely more than a twitch. “Perhaps a repeat of that trip?”

“That could be arranged.” I grinned back, pressing my lips to his gently, breaking away only to yawn again, looking longingly in the direction of bedroom. As much as I enjoyed the quiet company of Jeeves, the bed was currently calling me with a siren song that I could not resist, and I once again headed down the small hallway in it's direction.

“You coming?” I asked, and he didn't respond for a second.

“In a moment.” I shrugged, changing into my pyjamas as I went, curling up on the side of the bed furthest from the window, turning so that I'd have the best bet of avoiding the offending rays of sunlight come morning. I had been just drifting off when I heard Jeeves come in, and prepare for bed himself, before sliding in to his own side.

When we'd first figured out this whole bally romance thing, it seemed that we couldn't sleep close enough together. We'd wake up curled around each other, clinging to each other desperately, as though we'd wake one morning to find that it had all be some sort of dream, as though we were drowning and the other was a buoy to keep us afloat. I will admit to feeling moments of panic at times, that perhaps this would all fade away, and I'd be left with absolutely nothing. As such, falling asleep and waking up curled around one's love tends to stem the flow of panicked thoughts. But as the years ticked by, I found that there was less and less need to be reminded that he would always be there. It simply became a given fact after we reached our silver anniversary that we were never to part. The physical bond had slowly weaned as the one between us emotionally had strengthened-until we were quite content to sleep back-to-back, not touching at all, and still feel content with the others presence. “G'night.” I mumbled, more into the pillow than to him.

“Good night.” He affirmed, settling down beside me. I laid there, half-asleep, wondering if this would ever have to end. If he'd grow bored of me now that any good looks that I had had vanished, now that I no longer had the Drones as a club to buck up the spirits-and didn't particularly miss it either. Oh sure, I still saw Gussie and Bingo every now and then, but they were busy with their own families, what had been the best of chums was now reduced to the odd luncheon here and there, and the occasional visit to Tuppy and Angela to see the youngest members of the Glossop brood, who regarded me as something of a kindly uncle. Would Jeeves simply fade away from my life the same way as everything else seemed to have? It seemed a natural part of getting older, I supposed. Where all my friends had grown up and married off and were too busy with their own families and their own work, and their own lives, I'd found myself without a bairn-clan, and only Jeeves to stand at my side. My playful spirit still crept up every now and then, but it'd been tempered with the years-it was hard, after all, to look at the world as sunshine and roses when there was a constant undercurrent of tension whenever one looked at the papers. I still settled down to tinkle the ivories on a regular basis, but less and less often with the latest hits, nor did I find much reason to toddle off to the music halls on the regular.

The first few notes of snoring started on the other side of the bed, and if I let out a bit of an unmanly whimper, what of it? These were the sorts of rum thoughts that were apt to plague one's soul at late hours of the night, particularly when one looks back on the person that they once were and realized that time and tide had changed them into something else that still bore the title of Wooster, B, but could hardly be called the same man. The other side of the bed rustled, and the snoring grew just a tad louder, but where there had been a good solid few inches of empty space between us, there was now a warm and inviting arm to curl into. And I did, remembering that Jeeves had been at my side in one way or another for the better part of four decades, and that if any of the garish selections of the Wooster wardrobe, nor an attempt to pick up the trombone (nipped rather in the bud after a reminder of the consequences of the previous banjolele incident), nor purple sitting rooms and paisley print bedspreads, nor motorcycles, or stints in prison for petty larceny in the name of Aunt Dahlia, nor vicious glass-eating aunts or arguments over preferred appellations (he's never been fond of his Christian name) nor even a world war could pry him from my side, it was rather unlikely that my advancing years would. I wrapped one arm around him, and a leg for good measure, tucking my head against his shoulder, where I'd learned long long ago it fit rather like two pieces of a puzzle joining together, giving a rather contented hum as I drifted off to sleep, dreams of Caribbean cruises and what could be gotten up to on them dancing through my head.


End file.
